Writer and illustrator Kerstin Thorvall died last night. We met a long time ago when she was in Helgum, a village close to where I lived, when she was there to talk about her books. I think my mum was more interested - she had her books and I hadn't even read one, but I really liked the talk and ended up being invited to go see her sometime, and I did.

We talked about art and writing, she read some of my stuff and she liked it, and I went to her exhibition. I have one of her drawings. She had so much anxiety at times and I didn't know how to deal with it so I pulled away.

I remember how sad and frustrated she was that her body didn't work anymore. She could barely go for a walk but she wanted to dance.

In a way, I'm not sure I am sad she died. I am sad that her life was so difficult toward the end. She was a very fun-filled person with such great pain. I open a hot pink book she sent me and read the heartbreaking letter inside.